


From the Same Star

by LovelySilverwood (Eanna23je)



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Game of Thrones Spoilers, Jon Snow Knows Something, Jon and Arya are Soulmates, POV Arya Stark, Sassy Arya Stark, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:08:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22397590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eanna23je/pseuds/LovelySilverwood
Summary: “Look at us, a couple of sods over something so silly as love.” Arya laughed—because what else was she supposed to do?Jon looked away, but not before she caught his grimace. “You still don’t believe in love?”“And you still believe in soulmates, do you?” She wanted to scream, to rage and hit him. But that would be like striking her own flesh and Arya had never been a masochist. Or maybe she was?~For the Jonrya Valentines Challenge 2020
Relationships: Jon Snow/Arya Stark
Comments: 21
Kudos: 67
Collections: Jonrya Valentines Challenge





	1. once upon a time

**Author's Note:**

> “I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything.  
> Maybe we’re from the same star.”  
> ― Emery Allen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I feel like a part of my soul has loved you since the beginning of everything.  
> Maybe we’re from the same star.”  
> ― Emery Allen

The onscreen couple stumbled upon each other on the ash-riven battlefield, starry-eyed expressions on their stupid faces. 

Popcorn pelted the flatscreen.

“Oh gods, there’s still a bloody war going on! Pay attention!” she crowed before sinking back into the cushions. 

Her movie buddy rolled his eyes at her while the onscreen couple kissed against a backdrop of dragon fire. “They thought the love of their lives was dead, what would you have done?”

Arya snorted. “Maybe not exchanged spit with my _brother_ when his dragon queen girlfriend blew up a city.”

Jon sighed but didn’t reply as the onscreen couple raced to save their people and defeat the evil queen. They were victorious, of course. The bastard prince was half Targaryen and took control of the Queen’s remaining dragon before ending her life. It was a tale as old as time, familiar as their maester’s lessons. It also happened to be part of Jon and Arya’s heritage, if the rumors were true. 

Arya booed the screen as the victorious couple was crowned King and Queen of all Westeros. “Gods, can they get any sappier? Why I let you make me watch this, I’ll never know.”

Jon turned off the screen with the remote and finally turned to face his pink-haired cousin. “You do remember when _you_ insisted we watch this? All because of _your_ namesake?”

Arya rolled her eyes. “Sue me for thinking it’s kick-ass I was named after a queen. They didn’t do her bloody justice! They didn’t even go into the rumors of how she defeated the Night King.”

Jon shook his head and stood, unwilling to have this old argument again. “Everyone knows it was Aegon who defeated him.”

Arya followed him out of the Stark’s theater room and down the stairs to the kitchens. “You’re being bloody ridiculous. I found Maester Tarly’s records in _our_ library, stupid!”

Jon’s shoulders tensed and she watched in morbid fascination as his arm muscles flexed while he tied his black curls in a bun behind his head. 

_Down, girl. He’s your_ cousin _, repeat—cousin_. 

Arya shook her head and skipped until she’d blocked his entrance into the kitchen. At least everyone else had already left for the night. So she didn’t need to feel guilty when she invaded his space and thumped Jon’s hard chest with a quick jab. “Are you listening to me, Snow?”

Jon’s gray gaze darkened as he caught her next hit in a tight grasp. “I think you’ve more than made your point, and I’m only sorry I let you ruin _my_ favorite movie.”

Arya gaped, momentarily at a loss as Jon released her hand with a shudder and harsh steps to the fridge. She could never understand why he became so easily angered when she brought up the story of Aegon and Arya. 

Theirs had been a tale old as time, and yet even as a girl, she’d longed to know more than what the history books said. She simply _knew_ there was more to her namesake. It’s the reason she’d chosen to become a history major at Uni this past year. 

Jon had a lifelong love of history, too. Her love sprouted from his, really, and all those hours he’d dragged her through the stacks in the family library. They used to debate for fun all the time, to the annoyance of the rest of the family. It was one of the many things that had made Arya and Jon, well, _them_.

“I’m sorry, Jon.” She wasn’t certain _what_ she was sorry for, only that she knew her words had somehow hurt him. 

Jon’s knuckles whitened as he gripped the edge of the fridge and hung his head in the cold. Another heartbeat, and then he’d pulled two beers from the fridge, shut the door and turned to face her with an unreadable look. 

It had been so much harder to read him since she’d come back from her first year at Oldtown University. Arya blamed herself for staying away over Yuletide, all because he had a stupid girlfriend.

_She doesn’t matter._

“I guess…” Arya chewed on her lip, shifted as his gaze darkened. “I’m just so sick of everyone in my department downplaying her role in all this.” She gestured to the room around them—the heart of _their_ Winterfell. 

Jon grimaced, but something akin to pity bled through the cracks in his mask as he popped the cap off the beers and handed her one wordlessly. 

Arya smiled as her fingers brushed his and a familiar jolt raced up her arm. 

_Just static electricity. Don’t get excited over nothing._

Jon kept his head bowed as he walked from the kitchen and up a familiar trek to his bedroom. 

Arya eagerly followed. She still felt like a little shit, trying to restart one of their old arguments. Only, she wasn’t sure how to handle this version of her Jon. She hadn’t been since puberty and— for some _gods_ damned reason—the only person she’d felt attracted to was her _cousin_. 

_They don’t make them barmier than you, Stark._

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅


	2. a girl loved a boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Jon are both home on holiday. It's the first time they've been alone together in over a year, and Arya can only hope she won't ruin this chance to finally be with him. If only she could hold her tongue long enough, they might be more than all right.

The roof had been their refuge, ever since her Aunt Lyanna dropped Jon off on their doorstep, then bailed when he was twelve.

Arya found him on the roof that second awful night. No one else had been able to find him after Theon teased Jon in front of the others and her cousin had fled. 

Arya couldn’t say what had led her to climb out of his window. She wasn’t a daredevil like Bran. All she knew was something tugged at her small heart, from the moment she’d seen Jon Snow’s dark hair and gray eyes—just like hers. 

That second night, the first time they truly met, Arya had found him on the roof crying. She’d wrapped her small arm about his bigger frame and leaned her head on his shoulder. After all his tears had dried, Jon slipped his arm about her slight waist and pointed out every constellation in the sky he could find. Later, when asked, Arya would say she’d found Jon in his room. From that moment on, they had been inseparable.

Arya sipped at her beer from her seat beside Jon on the roof above his bedroom and waited. 

One year. A year since she’d left to study at Oldtown. Jon had come straight back to Winterfell after finishing his education. But his job took him all across the North, researching and fielding new dig sites. Jon was determined to preserve what remained of the time of the Wolf Kings, or so he claimed. Most of his letters and phone calls had been tense with something _other_. An endless search for something he could not give name to. 

“You haven’t asked me about my last term yet,” she finally began. 

Jon glanced at her from the corner of his eye. “You used to tell me everything first thing every time you came home. I guess I just thought…” He grimaced and ducked his head. 

Arya nudged his shoulder. “What?” 

His jaw clenched, accentuating the smooth line. No matter how long he grew his beard, she would always know how perfect his features were. 

Jon fiddled with the bottle between his hands. “Bran wrote you had a boyfriend.” 

“That little shit!”

His grip on the bottle tightened. “Didn’t care to ask and hear about _him_ instead, I suppose.”

Arya could hardly hear him over the pounding of her heart. He hadn’t said _anything_ hardly since they’d arrived home at the same time. She had dragged him to watch his favorite movie because they never did anything together anymore. How she’d missed being with him like this. And fuck all if he wasn’t right and she hadn’t wanted to tell him about Gendry.

Arya tipped back her bear and swallowed back enough to burn. She blinked up at the stars and drew in a steadying breath. “I—it was nice while it lasted. Didn’t make it with him for more than a month.” She chewed on her bottom lip a moment, before turning to face Jon and confessing, “Realized we were better as friends.”

Jon’s shoulders tensed and his voice came a rough whisper. “Are you all right?” He moved one hand to pull hers from plucking threads from her jeans to rest enfolded in his reassuring hold.

Arya closed her eyes and shook her head. “I didn’t love him.” 

Jon threaded his fingers through hers and she cursed the instant heat that pulsed through her arm, igniting every nerve on fire. She couldn’t be cold, or numb as she often felt, even when around others. Not with her hand wrapped in his, under the focus of _his_ gaze. 

Arya opened her eyes and took one final drink from her beer before daring to meet his eye. “What about Ygritte?”

Jon swallowed heavily, but he didn’t let her go, only held her gaze. “Ygritte found out I was in love with someone else.”

Arya held her breath and tried not to show her disappointment. Of course he’d already found someone else… But Jon continued to look at her, as though he were searching for something in particular. A flash of something she might have called longing, if she didn’t know better, twisted his expression. 

_Probably missing that twat, whoever she may be._

“Look at us, a couple of sods over something so silly as _love_ .” Arya laughed—because what the fuck _else_ was she supposed to do? 

Jon looked away, but not before she caught his grimace. He shook his head and then in a stronger voice, began, “You still don’t believe in love?”

_Of course I do, because I love you. But I can’t let anyone see can I?_

“And you still believe in _soulmates_ , do you?” she said aloud. She wanted to scream, to rage and hit him. But that would be like striking her own flesh and Arya had never been a masochist. Or maybe she was?

Jon flinched as though her words had struck him. He pulled away from her touch, using the hand that had held hers to finish his beer. “It’s late.” His tone was colder, but his expression was anything but composed. “I’ll see you in the morning, Arya.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentines Day Jonrya fam! I was so excited to learn about this event, mostly because I had intended to share this fic during Jonrya Week before life got in the way. What was originally to be a nice long one-shot is now a smaller chapter fic ;) I'm guessing ten shorter chapters, but we'll see. Enjoy and happy reading!


	3. and made a wish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya wishes she could stop putting her foot in her mouth. She wishes for imaginary things like second chances and that life could be like the fairy tale her namesake lived. No harm can come from wishing, right?

“Well, that was just fucking _brilliant._ You managed to lie to his face _and_ make him feel like shit for believing in something beautiful.” She threw her arms out to greet her bedroom and announced, "Arya Stark, ladies, and gentlemen." Her beer bottle knocked into her closet door and its contents sloshed over her wrist. 

Cursing under her breath, Arya righted her bottle and shimmied out of her jeans.

The room was the same as she’d left it, much to her shock. Rickon had teased for months about taking over her space. Sure enough, she could see evidence of her littlest brother’s residence from the junk by the game chair before her computer system. At least someone had missed her. 

Her grin faded as she thought of Bran— _the traitor_ —as he would be forever known. She’d need to have words with him for spilling about Gendry. 

Arya froze as she caught her reflection in the mirror hanging off her closet door. A young woman with too-large gray eyes and flyaway bubblegum pink hair stared back. There were rings about those eyes, her cheeks, slightly puffy from crying after she managed to crawl back through Jon’s bedroom window. 

With a clumsy hand, Arya managed to set aside the second bottle she’s snagged from the kitchen before coming back upstairs.

Upon straightening, she stared at the body she hadn’t been taking care of, not since things ended with Gendry. He’d always been brilliant at keeping her sane and healthy. Not to mention Hot Pie and Weasel’s penchant for bringing fresh cooking to her dorm every night.

Since ending things in typical fuck-all fashion with Gendry before term ended, Arya hadn’t been eating, or studying, or even sparring at the local gym. 

She lifted the hem of her too-big jumper and ran her fingers over her ribs, where toned muscle had been. “When are you going to grow up, Stark?” she whispered to her reflection. 

Her reflection didn’t have an answer, and when her vision began to blur again, Arya slammed the closet door shut. 

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” she mumbled as she twisted and practically fell into disheveled bedsheets.

One week was all they had if Jon chose to stick around the whole of Arya’s winter break. 

She sighed as she reached for her bedside table and pulled her worn copy of _Wuthering Heights_ onto the bed. Jon had gifted her with the book five years ago. They were always gifting each other odd things, atypical of their age. Arya still recalled how quickly she'd devoured the familiar tale of the bastard orphan falling love with his adoptive father’s daughter. 

_Wonder why, genius…_

She ran her fingers over Jon’s inscription, then pressed against the weirwood leaf he’d slipped between the pages. 

“If only I lived in a time when I didn’t ruin everything,” she mumbled as her eyelids finally drooped closed. The red leaf tingled against her fingers, but she barely noticed as dreams stole her consciousness. 

⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅

The distant clashing of steel woke her hours later. 

Arya jolted aware at the unfamiliar sound. Fencing gave off a similar but fainter slice and slash. Not the heavy jarring clanging she heard beyond her bedroom door. 

“What the hell?” She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, then groaned as she sat up too quickly. “Oh, fuck me, that’s the last beer I drink this week…”

Nothing else to it. Whoever was in the yard playing with Father’s old family collection of swords needed to be stopped—yesterday. 

“Gods, I swear if it’s Rickon again…” she mumbled as she shoved her fur blankets aside, bare feet landing on another fur rug. “What the…” 

Arya blinked blearily at the missing carpet, the wooden floors and walls. A fire was burning in the _hearth_ , and at a stand beside her bed stood an actual set of third-era Stark armor. Not just any armor, either. 

_Queen Arya’s armor._

She wasn’t a history major for nothing. 

“Bloody hell!” Arya shrieked as she tumbled out of bed, tripped over a pair of leather boots and ran her hands over the much-newer set of armor she’d last seen behind layers of glass in King’s Landing. “What the ever-loving _f—_ ”

“Princess?” a timid voice queried from behind. 

Arya jumped, caught her racing heart with a hand and gaped at the girl in Winterfell cosplay standing at the room’s entrance. “Who the hell are you?” she blurted. 

The girl gasped, ducked her head and folded her hands tightly over her apron. “F-forgive m-me for intruding m-milady. I heard shouts and c-came to see as to your w-wellbeing.”

Arya ran a hand over her face, slightly hysterical laughter bubbling past her lips. “Oh gods, I must be more hungover than I thought.”

Her head really _was_ still pounding, after all. And whoever was outside bashing steel was _not_ helping, damn it. 

The girl, meanwhile, had gone from confusion at Arya’s words to quiet terror. “I—perhaps I should ask for Lady Sansa…”

Arya snorted. “Why would you call my aunt? She was still spending the holys with Uncle Robb in the Eyrie, last I checked.”

The girl cocked her head slightly. “T-the Eyrie? No, milady, she came to help the king take back Winterfell, to rescue _you_ …” The girl froze when her explanation was met with more laughter. 

“Gods, Bran put you up to this, didn’t he? That little shit…” She kept one hand to her forehead and nearly commented further on her younger brother. Only the girl looked frightened again and was backing away, a stuttering mess.

“I-I’ll just fetch her l-ladyship, then. I—f-forgive me, Princess.” The girl curtsied— _who the hell does that anymore_ —before backing out of the room with a gentle click of the bedroom door.

Arya blinked, then sighed as she looked about the room. This was something else, really, but it wouldn’t be the first time her little brothers had played an elaborate prank on Arya. She wondered then if they had done something similar to Jon. Both of them had always been teased for their obsession with the past. Had he been greeted by an actress dressed in cosplay too? 

Biting back another peal of chuckles, Arya searched the room for pants. A pair of woolen lined-brown leather lay draped over a chair. Just as she would have done, and just her size. 

“Wow, they really spared no expense,” she said with a shake of her head. 

She managed to shimmy into the leather pants and pull the boots on but ignored the jacket and armor. It wouldn’t be the first time she’d run around in a tunic without her bra on. After dressing as quickly as possible, Arya attempted using the primitive teeth cleaning tools and drank colored water from the proffered bowl. This more than anything made her feel a bit more human. 

Arya didn’t wait for the actress to bring Aunt Sansa to her room. _If_ her mum's sister really had come all the way North for holys. Maybe she and Robb had wanted to surprise them? The last thing Arya cared to see that familiar look of disapproval on Catelyn’s younger sister’s face.

Sansa had been married to their father’s younger brother, Robb, for ten years now. Both had been the younger siblings, always thrown together when Ned and Catelyn managed to arrange family holidays. Arya loved Uncle Robb, while Jon had looked to him as an older sibling. Neither could understand how Robb and Sansa fell in love when they’d always acted like they couldn’t stand each other. 

All thoughts of how much of the family was in on this Yule prank died the moment Arya left the castle hall and stepped outside to the wooden bridge overlooking the open courtyard. 

It was bloody freezing, colder than it had been after she’d ducked into the empty house with Jon yesterday.

It was also decidedly _not_ the modernized Winterfell Arya knew. 

This, like the replica armor in Arya’s room, looked like something out of the movie she’d watched with Jon last night. Only, the courtyard wasn’t populated by beautiful people like had been in the set. 

Instead, the scent of peat, snow and unwashed people assaulted her nose, nearly making her gag. There were guards patrolling battlements, smoke rising from pyres lit every twenty-or-so feet. A dozen others dressed in heavy furs darted about the pathways to and around the sparring yard. And down below, dressed in a thin layer of leathers, Jon Snow was sparring with a giant beast of a man. 

“What the _fuck_!” Arya hissed, louder than she’d intended. For the moment she spoke, Jon knocked his larger opponent back and lifted his head to meet her gaze across the courtyard.

It really was Jon, long black hair coming undone from its place tied behind his head. Black beard the same length she remembered from last night. 

The giant of a man was saying something before he, too, turned to follow Jon’s sudden shift in focus. A wicked grin turned the man’s face into something between slightly deranged and surprisingly handsome.

The man muttered something else that was drowned out by the cold winds, the steady hum, and clang from the blacksmith’s forge. 

_A forge? I’m still dreaming. I have to be._

She caught her head with both hands then, as Jon clocked the taller man in the jaw with a snarled shout of something that sounded like, “...ever again!” 

And then he was looking up at her, leaving the sparring arena behind and angling his head as if she were supposed to know what he was silently saying.

She giggled because of course, she had no fucking clue what his little head jerk meant, any more than she had a clue on what the _hell_ was going on!

Jon left the courtyard, worry creasing his too-handsome face.

This was far too elaborate, and it _had to be a dream_ because there was no way she was in the real Winterfell—the ruins her great-grandfather had named the new big house after.

“I’ve finally cracked,” she said to no one in particular. 

“You are not _cracked_ ,” came a familiar, eerily sedate voice just to her left. 

Arya jumped and covered her mouth with a hand that still reeked of beer. “Bran! You scared the hell out of me.” She was about to rip him a new one...until she took in the medieval wheelchair and the agelessness behind his Tully-blue eyes.

“I am not your Bran, or rather, _he_ has not my foreknowledge, Sister.”

“Are you stoned?” Arya blurted. His eyes didn’t look bloodshot, but he was good at covering his tracks. “Please tell me you’re stoned right now.” 

Bran’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You made a wish last night, Arya, unwittingly tapping into very old, very powerful magic.”

Arya scoffed. “Now I _know_ you’re stoned.”

“You wanted to live in a time you hadn’t _ruined_ everything, did you not?”

She couldn’t breathe. “How do you know that?” Her voice sounded too small and young and she really was cracking at this rate. And she _still_ had a headache. 

Bran’s smile widened, a facsimile of her little brother’s real smile worn on the face of this pretender. “I heard your wish and pulled you through.”

Arya caught her breath, and then her blood began to boil. “Are you telling me _you_ somehow did this?”

Bran inclined his head.

Arya threw out her hands. “Why didn’t you start with that, you little shit! Instead of having me on, nattering about _magic in my blood_!”

Bran’s smile never wavered. “You believe you have ruined your life in the future, but this is not true. I have brought you here to show you the truth.”

Arya laughed. “Oh, and you know everything, don’t you? Like you think you’re the bloody Three-Eyed Raven.”

“I _am_ ,” he simply replied. 

A chill pricked at the back of Arya’s neck that had nothing to do with the cold. “This can’t be real. I know I’m still dreaming. I just—need to _wake up_.”

“Arya?” Jon's voice was deep and rough and— _slightly winded from running?_ —right behind her. 

Arya closed her eyes and slowly turned to face her cousin. Heat rolled off Jon in waves, yet he was suddenly _right there_ in front of her, rough callouses catching on her cheek. 

“Are you all right? A servant caught me in the hall on my way up, said your maid was worried when she nor Sansa could find you. Arya?” His voice caught at her name. “Won’t you look at me?”

She drew in a steadying breath and opened her eyes.

“Gods, you look just like him,” she whispered as she stared up at him in wonder. The same eyes, only more haunted and weary. And there were scars peeking from _this_ Jon’s open tunic she’d never seen before. She battled a very strong urge to trace those nasty lines.

Her hand followed the urge without her brain's consent.

She _might_ have been a wee bit under the influence still, _maybe._ It was the only excuse she could give for the reason Arya ran a fingertip from the top of Jon’s tunic, crossing up his collar bone and ending at his neck. 

His breath stuttered, and then his hand caught hers in a tight grasp, not to pull away but hold her touch closer. “Arya…”

She tugged against his hold and blushed scarlet as her mind finally caught up. “Oh gods, I’m so sorry… I don’t know why I… I think I’m gonna be sick,” she groaned.

Jon’s mouth parted and his eyes burned with greater intensity than anything she’d seen from them before. 

It was the kind of look Arya had longed to find directed her way for ages, the way she’d only dared dream of before. Now he was somehow _right here_ looking at her as though he’d never seen anything more wonderful. Like he was prepared to move the world for her, and the contents of her stomach _were_ coming up. 

Arya barely managed to push him aside before she fell to her knees a heaving, sodding mess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're back! I hope everyone enjoyed and are ready for the wild twisty timey-whimey fun ahead. ;) I have a deep, deep love for all things time-travel related. This fic felt like the perfect opportunity to play around with one of my favorite tropes, Game of Thrones style. From this point moving forward, chapters will be closer to this length. It'll be a fun mash-up of modern and show/book-verse ahead. Thanks again for all your comments and kudos and happy reading!


End file.
